


Keeping Me in The Moment

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Canon, Daddy Kink, Dubious Consent, M/M, Porn With Plot, Possessive Behavior, Sexuality Crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:55:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21808534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In front of thousands of eyes, intoxicated with adrenaline, he can be truthful in a way that’s impossible when they’re alone. To the rest of the band it’s just another joke, Harry being Harry and Zayn playing along.
Relationships: Zayn Malik/Harry Styles
Comments: 4
Kudos: 109





	Keeping Me in The Moment

**Author's Note:**

> Cliche zarry fic!!! I've read so much stuff like this and wanted to write one myself. 
> 
> Find me on Twitter @/dovesinthwind

Harry can’t quite remember when this thing with Zayn started. He’s always appreciated his attractiveness, in a cool, detached sort of way that he’s learnt how to when looking at boys, especially ones he spends almost every waking (and sleeping) hour with. That wasn’t the case with Louis. It was more or less the opposite. He would be so giddy, swamped with feelings, totally obvious around him so everyone else could see. The mortification was too much to bear once it was all over, so he tries to keep his crushes to himself now. Protects himself a little more.

With Zayn, it’s easier to manage what he feels. He’s cooler, quieter, happier to sit in silence with Harry than any of the others, so Harry has the chance to collect his thoughts before speaking, before making a fool out of himself, lets slip how much he admires Zayn, wants him in his pants. The desire is there, sitting comfortably in his stomach, pleasantly simmering away.

The heat of the tour bus is stifling with the five of them sat together, an occasion that becomes rarer as the months go by, television whirring as the PlayStation runs. They’re somewhere in the deep south where the air is unbearably hot. Zayn and Harry both sit and listen to the other three talk loudly, deep in conversation about tonight’s show as they play, stealing occasional glances at each other from opposite sofas in some sort of unspoken dialogue, only adding their thoughts intermittently.

Unsaid are the touches between Zayn and Harry during the shows - deliberate, wanton and planned. They know the routes across the stage for each song like the grooves in the palms of their hands; every opportunity to connect eyes, hands, bodies. On stage, the pretences Harry holds dissipate. In front of thousands of eyes, intoxicated with adrenaline, he can be truthful in a way that’s impossible when they’re alone. To the rest of the band it’s just another joke, Harry being Harry and Zayn playing along.

Harry’s pulled out of his musings about the way Zayn’s fingers felt over the denim covering his arse the other night when he hears Niall say his name.

“Anyone ever call you daddy in bed, Haz?” It makes his cheeks flush, face becoming hotter than it already was.

“You know that’s not what I’m about,” he says sheepishly.

“Yeah, he’d be the one calling them daddy- or mummy. Is that like, the same?” Louis adds and Harry sort of wishes the ground would swallow him whole. He’s not a prude about sex but it’s always an ordeal being spoken about by a group of guys who are just not like him. He can sense a pair of eyes on him from the other sofa.

“That sounds weird,” Liam says, squirming uncomfortably.

“Don’t be sexist, Liam,” Niall says.

“That’s more Zayn’s thing, anyway.” Louis has a smug tone to his voice.

“Being called mummy?”

“No, shut up, Liam. Pez calls you daddy sometimes, innit,” Louis says evilly, though preoccupied with the game of Fifa. Zayn pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers.

“Not Pez. Other girls though,” he says calmly. Harry can’t help but watch him as he says it.

“Do you like it? I’m not sure if I would. I’m not really the type, I don’t think.” Niall’s rambles distract the rest of them while Zayn’s gaze turns to Harry, who pointedly avoids it, stares at the television, and laughs in the wrong places at their jokes. He continues to ignore Zayn’s eyes as they follow him out the room as he leaves to go to bed.

They reach the hotel a couple hours after sunrise, the sky a perfect clear azure. Harry would prefer torrential rains and freezing cold to this as he can’t enjoy it, confined to the building. Instead he spends the morning by the indoor pool, swimming in circles and sitting on the edge, dipping his feet into the calm blue. It’s even better when Zayn joins him. From where he’s sat, he has a fantastic view of him, reclined on a sunbed, eyes closed with his headphones on. Zayn is slight but toned, and Harry allows himself a few moments to entertain thoughts of being thrown around and roughed up by him, before he plunges himself into the pool again.

The show is intense, more than normal. Harry has to take several breaks just to stop and stare, take it all in. It’s sunk in as much as he thinks is possible by the second outfit change which is when the euphoria kicks in and he’s fired up on all cylinders.

It makes him brave. Brave enough to push Zayn further than last time and every other time before that. Lets their hands brush and stares meet as normal. He bends down in front of him at one point, pitched forward from the hips, microphone poised by his mouth and looks up into Zayn’s warm eyes, brimming with excitement as he thrusts his groin a brushstroke away. Another moment and they stumble towards each other, grinning widely. Harry pushes forward again while Zayn pulls back until he can’t anymore. Harry urges him to come closer with the temptation of his open mouth and when he can smell the sweat on Zayn’s upper lip, he leans in to lick across Zayn’s stretched out tongue and it’s all slick and velvety for a long, hot second. When Zayn is suddenly gone, he can do nothing but stand there with a huge smile on his face.

They sit together in the back of the van on the way back to the hotel. There was no time to shower back at the arena, so their t-shirts are soaked through, sticky where they’re pressed together. Harry leans his head tentatively on Zayn’s shoulder, careful to keep himself light. Zayn’s hand creeps onto his thigh a minute later. Harry tilts his head, mouth open, inhales the heady smell of perspiration on his neck, rubs the tip of his nose against him and exhales.

In the elevator, they remain glued together, pressed against the wall, silent while the others continue to shout, still strung up on a post-show high. Niall says something about the rest joining him in his room; Louis and Liam both accept the offer. Just as Harry’s about to reply, he feels the brush of fingertips over the crease where his arse meets his thigh, ever so gently. He has to stop himself from physically shaking.

“No. I’m going to sleep, I think,” he stutters. The fingertips pinch him, fast like a bolt of electricity.

“Same here,” Zayn says, “but me and Haz will see you guys in the morning.”

The others don’t notice the way Zayn has a finger hooked in the back of Harry’s jean as he leads them to their shared room.

It’s deeply quiet when the door is shut behind them, apart from the low rumblings of voices through the adjacent wall. Zayn walks a couple feet into the room and turns around, looks at Harry in the dim lighting. He reclines against the door, knocks his head against it, bares his neck for Zayn to see. Zayn stalks closer until he’s resting his head on Harry’s shoulder, like an admission of defeat.

The voices from next door still reverberate through the wall and the dull murmur is the perfect soundtrack as Harry brings Zayn’s face to him. They kiss softly, an antithesis of what Harry would have expected, given the power of the tension between them. Zayn’s arms still hang heavily by his sides and there’s a reluctance to the way his mouth moves. Harry tugs on his hair, tilts his own head and opens his mouth, urges Zayn inside. 

He’s all too aware of Zayn’s body now, hard and trim pressed up against him from head to toe. He’d never really had the chance to feel him this, never play wrestled with him like he did with the others. A shaky hand trails down his torso, grasps at Zayn’s sharp hipbones underneath his sodden shirt.

Zayn gives in, finally, when Harry lets out a little moan at the back of his throat. He’s pushed against the door with a force that shocks him even more than the shooting pain that flows from the back of his head as it collides with the wood. Zayn ignores the distressed whimper and bites down hard on Harry’s puffy bottom lip, drags it away from his mouth before letting it pop back. Harry gives it back just as good, makes it wet and sloppy, sucks on Zayn’s tongue eagerly. He’s desperate to get as much as he can while he has the opportunity, knows the chances of this happening again are slim.

“Zayn. Zayn,” he whines against his mouth, “want to suck you.”

Zayn sighs through his nose and releases his grip on Harry’s jaw, clenches his eyes shut. Harry startles, thinks he’s taken it too far for a second, but then Zayn touches his mouth delicately with the pad of his thumb, dips it inside for Harry to wrap his lips around.

“Zayn,” Harry says again, around him, “please.”

Zayn is still silent as he pushes Harry to the floor, undoes his fly with one hand and pulls his boxers down to release his hardening cock. As soon as he releases Harry’s jaw, he’s enveloped with Harry’s plush mouth, sweet and hot. Harry closes his eyes and lets himself savour the taste of Zayn’s cock on his tongue. He’s big and heavy and the fullness is perfect.

When he looks up, Zayn is stoically still, mouth pressed in a firm line as he watches his cock disappear further into Harry; he’s obsessed with the way it looks, the way Harry’s eyes water when it gets a bit too much. With a fist pressed to the door behind Harry, Zayn braces himself and begins to thrust instinctively, gets deeper and deeper. It’s rough, but Harry enjoys it, and Zayn must have known that from the way he’s spoken about his sexual proclivities before, drunk and uncaring about what he discloses.

Zayn comes soon after with a stifled groan, pulses deep into Harry’s throat, makes him swallow everything until he’s coughing and squirming on his knees.

When Harry looks up again, Zayn’s eyes are closed, and he has an arm thrown over them. He’s not sure what to do but sit there, dick throbbing in his jeans, pinched against the zipper and look at the floor. His heart feels like it’s about to cave in on itself. Both of them knew it was a questionable move, but Harry feels that guilt more – he wanted it, wants it. Wants something that Zayn doesn’t.

A moment more and he can’t cope. He stumbles to his feet and runs into the bathroom, locks it behind him. He doesn’t leave the shower until the voices from next door have silenced and everything is still.

~*~

It was never really decided for Harry that he would hide himself from the others, it was just a thing that came naturally. It’s not that he would never speak about what he likes to them – they’re all prone to indulging in conversation about each other’s tendencies in bed – it’s just that he says less. The boys are interested and reassuring enough, but something about sharing that part of him doesn’t sit right. Feels like it distances him further from the rest of them, more distant than he already is.

Even though it’s significantly more complicated with boys, he sleeps with who he wants. Wakes up with someone new every week. It’s good – for the most part. The staggering loneliness he feels is almost certainly inherent, a part of him that won’t change with the weather, the seasons, the name of the girl, boy, person he ends up with his mouth attached to for the night.

Being alone, together with another being is the one thing that mollifies him. Just being, quiet and calm with the presence of someone. It’s Zayn, that lets him have that.

A few days go by and it’s all awkward silences between them. The others don’t observe it because it’s normal to them – Zayn and Harry and silence. Harry distances himself, works out more, sheds a few pounds and sleeps a ton. Zayn is never with them when they’re hanging as a group, and if he is, he’ll pull Louis away after five minutes.

The shows are positively vanilla by comparison to last weeks’. Harry sings about a faceless girl to a screaming crowd of ten thousand of them. Grabs his crotch once or twice to spice it up. Their management will probably love him for it. For being the perfect product who doesn’t grind and lick and grope his bandmates.

When they’re in LA, Harry goes to visit his friends and gets a little too excited at a party. There’s a boy there he hasn’t seen before, probably straight from a Hollister photoshoot, tanned, beach blonde hair, and upwards of six foot. Harry can’t remember his name when they get to their hotel, but it doesn’t matter as he’s fucked raw into the mattress, way too loud and way too intoxicated for it to be reasonable. The boy comes across his thighs, ass, painting it white, and brings Harry off with three fingers inside him and a fist pumping his dick loose and swift.

It’s broad daylight when he wakes up. The thin cotton sheets cling to his belly and legs where he’s still a tad sticky. There’s a large body behind him, encasing him with a heavy arm over his waist.

The boy leaves easily enough with no questions asked, no pretences about meeting again. A whole three seconds pass before the door opens with Louis bounding in. Harry averts his eyes when he sees Zayn traipse in behind, expression unreadable. 

“Who the fuck was that, mate?” Harry pulls the covers over his head, sinks into the messy bed.

“You sounded close to death! We were seconds from calling the police.” Louis walks around as he speaks before jumping on Harry.

“Ew. Gross,” he says, clearly having felt the remnants of their orgasms.

“Why were you listening?” Harry grumbles, voice muffled from under the sheets until Louis pulls them away. Zayn is sat on the armchair by the window, watching them wordlessly.

“We had no choice,” he shouts, “Zayn looked bloody traumatized. Went white as a ghost when you started saying ‘daddy’. He should be used to that though. Anyway, what was he doing to you?”

Harry feels heat rush to his groin in a way that is totally inappropriate for the situation. He sits up and pulls his knees to his chest.

“What time is it?” Harry says, head still swimming.

“There’s an hour before we need to soundcheck,” Zayn says, eyes turned to the window now.

“Yeah. So wash the jizz out your arse and get dressed.” Harry cringes and ignores Zayn’s stare as it falls on him again.

It’s five minutes until show time when Zayn comes up to him. He’s loitering in a dark corner underneath the stage, hiding from the crew and band. The nerves are getting to him this time and he’s not sure why.

When he sees Zayn, his heart beats even faster. His eyes are dark, and he moves with purpose towards him, like a tiger stalking its prey, until he’s being pressed against the metal frame. It’s uncomfortable against his back, but he’s distracted as soon as his mouth is covered with Zayn’s. Stunned, he instantly relents and lets himself be kissed, if it could even be called that, hair bunched tightly in Zayn’s fist as his mouth is abused. So much for Lou’s efforts to tame it. He’s too overwhelmed to even consider the risk of someone walking by and seeing, a thought that would normally get him off if he wasn’t so bloody shocked. He knows his lips will be bruised and swollen when they’re finished, redder than they are naturally. Zayn releases him after what feels like a lifetime, bites his ear lobe teasingly then disappears.

Harry’s head is swimming and his dick is hard throughout the first three songs. He just about manages to go through the motions of performing, his singing barely passable, bad enough that even Louis gives him a questioning look.

During the routine discussion interval, Harry sits on his own at the bottom of the ramp. He shrinks into himself as Zayn sits next to him. It would be awkward if Zayn wasn’t so forward and confident with his actions.

“How are you feeling?” He has to take out Harry’s earpiece to shout into his ear.

“What?”

“Sore?” Harry’s jaw drops.

“Did he take care of you? After?”

“Zayn!”

“I’m sorry.” His voice is too sincere for him to be referring to his teasing statements. Harry just looks at him in awe. The section of crowd in front of them are screaming loudly at their interaction, probably deprived after a week without it.

“Will you come to my room tonight?” Zayn asks him, quieter now. It makes Harry bow his head and giggle, butterflies in his stomach. He nods.

“You won’t freak out this time?” Harry jokes with a sly smile.

“No. Won’t freak out,” Zayn repeats. He has a fond expression on his face. Before he bites his tongue, Harry leans into him.

“Gonna take care of me instead?” A pause and he takes a long blink. “Daddy?”

The journey back to the hotel is like last time, except the two of them make a swift exit together, getting a car separate from the others. With star light shining through the roof window, they kiss. They kiss more in the elevator, hands straining not to touch, and more again in the hallway. It’s only when they’re outside the door that they breathe, Harry rutting onto Zayn’s hip as he struggles to swipe the card through the slit.

Harry strips the second they’re in the room, sees the bed and makes a run for it. The mattress is soft and Harry springs up and down when he jumps onto it, rolls around until he’s on his back, legs sprawled apart. Zayn is naked too by the time he turns over.

Their mouths connect when Zayn leans down, arms braced either side of Harry’s head, careful not to trap and pull his hair. His eyelids feel heavy, his whole body melting into mattress. With intent, Zayn bites and sucks his way down Harry’s body, pausing at his nipples until they’re hot and crimson. Harry loses himself in it, hands splayed either side of him, totally motionless.

His trance is broken when there’s suddenly a mouth on his dick, licking up the length of it then suckling at the head.

“What the hell,” his exclamation is garbled. When his hand jolts on instinct, he accidentally pokes Zayn in the eye.

“Jesus,” Zayn laughs, jerking away from Harry’s crotch, a hand now pressed to his face. “You good?”

Harry refrains from saying what he’s really thinking, as clarity slowly seeps into his mind.

“Yeah. Just. You don’t have to do that,” he’s panting.

“I want-“ Harry cuts him off.

“Just finger me. Shit.” He climbs off the bed, narrowly avoiding Zayn’s head, this time with his knees, so he can find the lube from his bag. When he clambers back onto the bed, Zayn grabs his sides and pulls him down bodily, so he returns to his previous position, now with his hands above his head.

His eyes sink shut again as he feels wet fingers stroke over his hole, pressing insistently until the pucker of it opens, welcomes Zayn’s middle finger inside. It fucks into him a few times, and then there’s one, two more deep inside, gliding in and out. He doesn’t realise that he’s whining until he feels a sharp pinch to his thigh where he’s absentmindedly brought it up to his chest. He sees Zayn, sweat dripping off his brow, eyes flaming.

“Be quiet,” he says darkly. The immensity of his voice makes Harry tip his head back and moan from the back of his throat.

Zayn grunts, releases his fingers and flips Harry, manhandles him so he’s flat on his front, legs spread. His hands are slick from sweat and lube as he squeezes Harry’s pert arse, dragging the cheeks together and apart so he can see the tight pink clutch of his heat. When Harry moans again, Zayn slaps him, open-handed and sharp. Harry has to steal a breath before Zayn lands another smack on the other cheek.

“What?” Harry gasps.

“I told you.” Zayn slaps him again, once more, then holds the reddened flesh in his palms and squeezes.

“Daddy.” It’s quiet, pathetic almost, whimpered into the crease of his elbow. He senses Zayn pausing, breathing, resuming its movements. There’s the sound of a wrapper being torn apart from behind him and he turns his head on instinct.

Before Zayn can get a proper look at his flushed face, he reaches to turn Harry’s head back with his hand on the crown of it.

“You just lie there, baby. Daddy’s going to play with you a bit.”

It’s filthy, mind-bendingly so. Harry will need a break from this, a week of vanilla sex to get his appetite for something darker back.

There’s a cock at his hole, pushing at him. It takes effort for it to pop inside, the prior fingering being hardly adequate. It drives deeper and deeper until Harry can feel the full length of it, fully sheathed inside. Zayn isn’t as long as the boy from last night, but he is fatter, stretching him deliciously wide till there’s a burning sting at his rim, making him breathless.

Zayn gets to see the full effect of it. His cock, pulsing and rigid, splitting Harry open in the most intimate of places. His thighs frame Harry’s arse which looks perfect in his grip, white where his fingers press into the flesh. He pulls him apart to see the drag of his cock, pulling on his rim.

As Zayn rides into him harder and faster, Harry tries desperately to stay quiet, stop from gasping and wheezing, to be good for him – for Daddy. The idea consumes him.

Zayn moves his hands away from Harry’s arse finally and pins his shoulders to the bed, winding him further so he has no choice but to whimper, the air literally forced out of him. There’s a slap to the side of his arse and then Zayn drives inside him with more and more force until the slaps of their skin are louder than him.

“Zayn. Zayn,” he sobs, words staccato, but to no avail, “Daddy. Want.”

It only makes Zayn rougher with his thrusts.

Harry screams when he comes, spilling into the small space between the sheets and his belly, all wet and sticky and dirty. Zayn doesn’t stop bucking into him throughout it.

Harry comes to eventually and feels that the clutch of his body has loosened on Zayn, come undone and sloppy. With all the strength he can muster, he clenches tightly. To his delight, Zayn lets out this embarrassing whimper, fist clamping down on the sheets beside his torso. The break in Zayn’s demeanour is wonderful to witness, but it only lasts a few seconds before he grips onto the soft give of Harry’s hips, lifts him up off the bed slightly and drives on home.

“Where do you want to come, daddy?” Harry coos, face turned to the side, so his voice is heard. He’s successful when Zayn’s hips stutter.

“Fuck, Harry,” he moans, “on your face. Your face, shit.”

There’s some fumbling to get Harry on his back again, arse stinging against the wet sheets. Zayn kneels above him, knees pressed into his armpits.

Harry’s face is blushing and blissful below him, mouth open slightly enough that Zayn could fit his little finger in there. He swears again and comes, covering Harry’s cheeks, chin, nose with come. Harry flickers his eyes open and smiles as he feels wetness pool into his dimples. 

“Was that good, daddy?” He teases Zayn, laughing as he shakes his head in disbelief, still panting and coming down from his high.

Once they’re clean and lying on the fresh side of the bed do they speak again.

“You aren’t allowed to call me daddy in public, by the way.” The implication that this a thing that might happen again makes Harry’s head spin.

“What about ‘sir’?”

“Harry. Do you want a slap?” His arse kills but he would be easy for it.

“Yes, actually.”

"Right then. Turn over."


End file.
